


For those not invited to the Dance

by seekingjets



Series: Bad Business [7]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Blood and Injury, Brief Violence, But everything is consensual, Humanformers, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mind Games, Non-Explicit Sex, Not Beta Read, Not great at taking bad news, Overlord is his own warning, Poor Life Choices, That Sweet Sweet Megatron obsession, mild body horror, this is not a romance story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 17:23:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18877753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekingjets/pseuds/seekingjets
Summary: Overlord is back in town after Tarn gets some terrible news.---aka: Tarn thought he was better than this. Turns out he's not.[Overlord/Tarn stories - tags to be updated as fic progresses.]





	For those not invited to the Dance

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place not too long after Stay Stitch.

___

 

It had been a terrible day thus far, and considering the lumbering shape before him, Tarn knew it was only going to get worse.

“You’re late.” 

“Contact HR. Oh...oh well that’s _you_ now isn’t it?” Overlord wears his cleanest smile, settling crooked in the chair across from Tarn’s desk. Dressed in tattered jeans and a denim jacket fraying at the hem, a direct glaring violation of the dress code. Legs stretched as far as hips would allow while the broad torso seems unwilling to adhere to common sense - slouching like a drunken serpent if just to annoy his host. 

It works. 

Tarn is quite annoyed, especially as Overlord’s pale brow quirks at him. Playful as the sharp teeth peek from the curved mouth and Tarn does not flinch at the sight of silver canines. The modifications gleaming in Overlord’s mouth doesn’t bother him so much as the reckless of wearing them in the central building - where not everyone understands the purpose of their organization. Overlord knows better, but simply doesn’t care. 

Untidy cretin, plucking at the silk lilies on the table-side while his posture speaks volumes for how little he takes Tarn seriously. 

“You’ve had quite the busy month since you’ve returned to Kaon.” With a short toss Tarn drops the hefty folder to his desk. The vibration loud as multiple tabs specifically organized by hue jut out like shark fins in a row. “Fifteen different complaints against your behavior. Many from superior officers.” 

“Say it isn’t so,” Overlord gasps, exaggerated and still not meeting his gaze. “Oh but Tarn, I’ve tried to be a good boy. I really have. I’ve just missed home oh-so very much.” He seems ready to giggle, and then proceeds to. Sharing in a private joke within the depths of a wicked mind all while a pink tongue draws itself back and forth over silver fangs. 

Without looking down Tarn peels open the folder ready to burst, knowing which grievance he’d like to start with first. Not that he believes Overlord will care.

“Breakdown claims that during a clean up mission you robbed the deceased.” 

“Do the dead require earthly possessions? I wasn’t aware a corpse needed a tie pin.” Overlord chuckles and Tarn turns to the next tab. 

“On call of a simple trade supervision, Blitzwing reports you threatened the life of the boat captain.” 

“He was giving me funny looks.” 

“So you held him over the side of the docks?” 

“I was bored.” That giggle again, as if thrilled to hear his petty behavior read back to him - and likely just that. In all his time knowing Overlord what Tarn understood most of the bastard was his love of wasting people’s time. 

“And were you bored last week when you were assigned an extraction job and lost your charge?” 

“Technically,” Overlord raises a finger, angular face turning to the side. Those heinously dark eyes meet Tarn’s for the first since his arrival. “Technically I brought back…. _some_ of him.” He laughs. 

He dares to laugh while Tarn knows the pains Megatron’s office had to go through arranging additional clean up. Even Tarn’s team was deployed, ensuring none remained who had seen even the flicker of Overlord’s shadow. No bodies. No evidence left behind. Unlike this sloppy fool: Tarn and his division knew their job and did it well. 

Why then he was still forced to deal with trash such as Overlord was beyond him. The humane thing would have been letting the brute swallow a bullet years ago - but that was Megatron’s orders. Far be it from Tarn to doubt the greater purpose. 

“You understand this behavior cannot go unchecked?” Tarn questions, settled behind the length of his desk, polished and neat save for the glaring disorder of the folder before him. 

“Are you going to punish me, Tarn? What’s my safeword?” 

“You’ve been away so it’s possible you might have forgotten my role in this organization.” Tarn’s voice rises in pitch. “It’s my duty to ensure company cohesion and cooperation. I’m honored to provide excellent care and support to the various divisions and individuals who might find themselves...struggling with the demands of the day to day. And if no solution can be found, I am tasked with cutting out the issue altogether. No matter the means.” 

Overlord licks his lips at this, suddenly paying very close attention.

“Trust me, Tarn. I know well how far you’ll go to make my father happy.” 

“He’s not your father.” 

“Isn’t he?”

He doesn’t like how Overlord smiles at this, that mouth which has been restitched and repaired so many times always looks swollen now. Always bruised when he grins - either bloodthirsty or amused - neither of which Tarn enjoys witnessing. It was anyone’s guess how much of Overlord’s true face remained. Years of throwing himself into the line of fire, of enemy assaults and chasing down death’s call. Even from here Tarn can see the smatterings of scars across impossibly pale skin where it peeks at the jacket’s cuff. 

Some called Overlord immortal. A phantom. A god. 

But Tarn only knew one man worthy of such accolades. 

Overlord was merely a zombie, pieced together with stubbornness as his only driving force. 

“Sensitivity training should do.” He finally answers Overlord’s attempt to rile him, smiling in return and feeling the muscles of his face pull where they need to like overstretched rubber bands. It hurt to smile still, bundled scar tissue never gave way to full sensation no matter how good the surgeons were. “I will suggest a temporary leave of duty until a course is completed. I think that should help quite spectacularly.” 

The noise Overlord makes will get Tarn through so many angry nights, knowing that strangled frustration was in earnest as the large man shifts forward suddenly. Heavy hands falling to his knees and trying his best to appear hunched and looming while those terrible eyes try their damndest to unnerve.

“You used to be fun.” He sneers, suddenly dropping the earlier worn amusement for the anger broiling under the skin, focus drifting across the office decor. “I much prefer you in the field. This caged life doesn’t suit you.” 

“And I much prefer you at a minimum 300 foot distance.” 

“Someone’s in a mood today.” Overlord scoffs, moving to settle back into the chair but pausing at the last moment. Brows rising as his expression shifts once more to something, devious that it (almost) disturbs Tarn. “Oh, oh of course you’re sitting on a spiked pole today. _He_ made that announcement earlier, didn’t he?” 

Tarn pretends his jaw does not tighten.

“I’ve no idea what you’re referring to.” 

“Tarn, oh my dearest Tarn…” Overlord is back to his aloof posture, stretched out with legs jutting at unsightly angles. Clearly enjoying whatever he’s decided else is happening in this conversation. “You poor thing, you must be devastated.” 

“Please leave some air in the room for the rest of us, you’re using it all trying to form a thought.” 

His insult is met with only the cruelest of grins.

“Megatron announced that Starscream will be taking a more active role in the true focus of our cause.” Overlord seems ready to burst with delight, eyes wider than before as he takes in Tarn’s unmoving expression. “But we all know what that means…” 

“It means Starscream is finally going to do more than galavant about the offices and complain over his funding limits.” Tarn tries to intercept, shutting the file with a loud _snap_. “And that our meeting is over.” 

Overlord doesn’t seem to care, his silvered teeth glistening in the amber light of corner lamps, meant to balance the office space. Encourage peace and comfort with the limited tones - Tarn read it in an architectural magazine. Primus knows he needed peace, but in this moment his only thoughts were of grabbing one of those lamps and smashing it over the man’s head. 

“No no no, It means daddy-dearest has finally decided to settle down. What’s that? I hear wedding bells on the horizon. Do you think I’ll catch the bouquet?” 

Soundwave came to deliver the news personally. They sat in the same chair Overlord had wrinkled with his poor posture - explained the situation in few but startling words while Tarn tried not to swallow his own tongue. 

Security would change, Starscream would be afforded more considerations now that it seemed Megatron had decided the depths of their relationship. He listened and accepted, making notes of what would directly affect his position and understood everything Soundwave explained perfectly. Even with the ringing in his ears. Deafening and bringing back such familiar pain that the moment Soundwave left Tarn was chewing prescription tablets like candy and trying to remind himself there was no reason for the tremor in his hands. 

That tremor had been fixed long ago, it was purely psychological. He was whole again...and yet felt entirely shattered at the news.

Starscream was brilliant, beautiful and clever. Endlessly talented but at the same rate wicked and unrestrained. Megatron deserved more, he deserved...

“As always meeting with you is a complete waste of my time.” He stands, counting down to the last second and realizing this was a personal record for time spent in a room with Overlord. Unsupervised at least. “You can go, I’ll inform Soundwave of your new restrictions.” 

“I bet you will.” Overlord’s voice is a purr, vibrating the desk where the larger man has somehow moved so quick - unexpected as he’s now resting with palms on the flat surface and curving into Tarn’s space. Expecting Tarn to flinch, or step back, but he refuses to give him the pleasure. 

A hand reaches out, clipping the edge of Tarn’s chin with a scarred knuckle. “C’mon Tarn, you can confide in me. How did you react? Did you cry? Scream? No, you seem like the mournful type who’d blast broken hearted melodies and sit in utter darkness.”

Tarn’s face hardens. He can feel the warmth of Overlord’s amusement reach the edges of his jaw, and refuses to give the reaction he knows the man wants. He’s better than that, than him. But the dissatisfaction left dark shadows under Overlord’s eyes and he pressed further in.

“I can’t say I blame Megatron, Starscream is quite the catch. Highly intelligent, but a bit wild don’t you think?” 

“The door is right behind you.” 

“What, no opinion Tarn?” Overlord blinks, lashes like frost over dark eyes that never seem to match. “C’mon, where’s that doe-eyed devotee I first met years ago? I miss that scrawny little fucker, always staring at daddy-dearest like he’d just witnessed the coming of Primus. He used to be so thrilled with groupies, throwing themselves at him after he stepped from the ring, but that was years before you arrived. Did you ever get a chance to---” 

“What do you think is going to happen here?” Tarn interrupts, thinning his eyes at the other, managing not to look _up_ more than necessary. “You’re going to rile me? Distract from your recent failings with personal matters of which you have no concept?” Tarn breaks into a half smile, this time truly amused. “You think too highly of how much your opinion matters to me.” 

He continues to smile, Overlord does not.

“The door, once again, is right behind you. And don’t fret, I’ll be certain Megatron hears of your inability to follow a simple order. I’m sure he kept your cell open just in case you had another… _tantrum_.” 

Something changes in Overlord’s face, and not in a good way. Tarn expected anger, insult at the rattling of an old wound - but the way the man shifts is indeed unpleasant. Wearing an expression Tarn was positive Overlord should not be capable of making: sympathy.

“You know I actually do feel sorry for you.” He cooes, reaching out to stroke the length of Tarn’s exposed jawline where the nerve endings had managed to remain undamaged from his youth. “So perfect, the impeccable Tarn. Megatron’s favorite attack dog chained at a fence post and forgotten. Flawless Tarn, and yet for all that you do you’re still nothing compared to his favorite little missile maker.” 

If Tarn had been wearing his mask Overlord wouldn’t have seen the sparse tremble of his lashes in response.

“There it is.” Overlord rumbles, delighted with himself. Trailing fingers down Tarn’s pulse until they hovered at the edge of a pressed collar. “You just can’t stand it can you? After everything you’ve done for him - after the life you gave up for him - you’re still just some scarred little wretch throwing palm leaves under his feet and nothing more.” 

“Touch me again,” Tarn can feel the weight of Overlord’s touch just skirting the fold of his collar. “And you’ll lose that hand.”

Overlord doesn’t take his threat seriously considering just how quickly the massive hand dives to wrap the back of Tarn’s neck. Impressive strength dragging Tarn forward that he’s forced to slam palms down on the desk to keep from being toppled by the iron grip bruising his skull - all while Overlord’s chuckle is a searing insult against his cheek. 

“Should I kill him for you? Would his broken heart in a box make you smile?” 

Tarn swings his skull forward to crack into Overlord’s smirking face before taking moment to question _whom_ the man was offering to kill. It didn’t matter - knew better than to hesitate with Megatron’s brutal creation. Sending the man stumbling back with a deep sound, but not entirely of pain as Overlord’s grip only managed to tighten on Tarn’s skull. Pulling him forward in the falling momentum.

He has only a moment to fold an arm, absorb his weight and spare himself a wicked greeting with the surface of the desk. He loses sight of Overlord but for a moment, only the sound of rushing fabric and sharp breath seconds before the instinct to move takes over. Turning his body to the side just as a glass paperweight is shattered where his skull once bowed. 

“You mean to tell me!” Overlord cackles, Tarn quickly righting himself and watching the large man jump the desk with little effort. Blood drips down his sharp nose, smearing across the mouth as he speaks. “We could have been having meetings like this all along? You’ve been holding out on me Tarn!” 

“We’re in the main facility!” His voice raises against his wishes, calculating the extensive mess he was now a part of. Petty squabbles and shows of violence were strictly prohibited in any location civilians might see. Megatron would be furious - but worse than that - Tarn knew he was not allowed to kill Overlord. Even in self defense. 

Overlord unfortunately had no such restraints. 

“Don’t be so boring!” The man groans theatrically. “We used to spare all the time when you were getting used to your new body. Don’t you miss those days?” Eyes trail Tarn’s form, the quirked smile bad enough, but the additional delight in the man’s expression just pisses Tarn off more. “Tell you what, you win? I’ll write a personal apology to all those I’ve upset...” 

He really hates to break the rules - but he might have to kill the bastard. 

Overlord charges, little room to dodge so Tarn digs heels and takes the weight. A poor decision as even with the meat of his arms preventing ribs from being broken, the sheer force knocks breath from his lungs and gives Overlord a moment of advantage. Opposing hand reaching back to swing across Tarn’s skull, leaving him seeing mocking stars screaming in his blurred vision. The second attempt Tarn moves, feeling the wind rush past Overlord’s knuckles as he ducks out of reach. Bending knees and driving his shoulder into the man’s gut, meeting the torso like trying to tackle a steel wall. It works well enough as Overlord collapses under the force. Sending them both sprawled and scrambling to the floor. The chair topples and something glass shatters in the wake of their bulky forms trying to navigate the humble space. 

Kaon, outside, most certainly heard the crash that time and Tarn only had so much time before others would get involved. Overlord might be playful now, but he had to keep this contained! Prove to Megatron that he could perform his duties as asked!

“You’re thinking of him aren’t you?” Below Tarn’s weight Overlord churns, the vibration of his voice felt up the sides of spread thighs, trying to keep the man down. Battering ram arms swing to displace Tarn’s position but he’s able to use the position to swat them away - leaving certain bruises across forearms as nothing on Overlord’s body can be touched without leaving a mark. “You always look so pitiful when you think of him.” 

“Be quiet!” 

“No.” 

The man blows a kiss and Tarn doesn’t expect the shift beneath him. The effortless motion as Overlord sits up as though Tarn’s weight is nothing to him. Startled as he’s displaced and then grappled: thrown back to the glass-scattered desk as the fractured pieces pinprick and puncture through the fabric of his blazer. Overlord’s forearms like weighted bars down Tarn’s chest keeping him from sliding out of the hold. 

“You know I used to admire you.” Overlord sighs above, catching Tarn’s wrist before he can take a fist of glass and scratch out his eyes. Pushing down on the joint until the pain forced him to drop the shards which had sliced up his palm. “You were such a feisty thing back then, limitless. Now look at you? A glorified secretary.” 

“Better than a mistake.” Tarn spits out as Overlord fists the lapels of his jacket, pulling him up and closer with the wide sneer. The trickle of glass falls from Tarn’s hair and he wonders if his prosthetics were displaced. Funny to be worried about appearances now, what with Overlord’s shadow encasing him with that chaotic cloud. The look in dark eyes so empty, cruel...focused. He’d always been this way hadn’t he? Unstoppable save for Megatron’s command, and even that was a straw’s weight away from ruin.

“You don’t see it, do you? You really think you’re a true Decepticon when in reality you’re nothing more than a sniveling pet.” Overlord teases and Tarn bares teeth at the claim. “Look at you, no rebellion - no individual thought. You’ve covered up any personal autonomy with skin grafts and prosthetics to make yourself look human. But Tarn, we both know that devil’s mask is your real face.” 

“My real face was stolen from me years ago.” He speaks without thinking, wanting to spit poison at the man guessing wild and careless about matters he couldn’t possibly understand. “What I wear now is none of your business.” 

He doesn’t expect Overlord’s voice to fall almost gentle, soothing like a hush while the rumble pours across where their torso’s meet. His legs are wrapped above the other’s hips, nearly numb in the attempt to squeeze and suffocate - but it appears to hold no sway on his current state. It seems you really do need more to kill an immortal. 

“I know we’re the same. _His_ puppets, used and left behind. Stuffed on a high shelf until useful. He doesn’t love either of us, Tarn, and the sooner you come to realize this the better off you’ll be.” 

 

Tarn loosens his grip and watches that haunted face fluster momentarily in surprise. He can see himself in Overlord’s eyes, the reflection distorting his face, his fleshy mask, appearing just as inhuman as he feels. As the world once viewed him stumbling through the alleyways looking for a purpose. 

The tension of his form goes lax and Overlord can feel it where their bodies meet, now the only strength holding Tarn off the sea of broken glass and spilled papers. The complaints forgotten, the rules and regulations of the office just as crumpled as the bent chair and dent in the wall. Tarn feels the other’s pulse under his fingertips where hands still linger. The speed of it strange, human despite all evidence to the contrary as they stare each other down with heaving chests and a shared bitterness laced between them. Just as tangible as the blood smattering Overlord’s face, a drop or two spilling across Tarn’s throat. Warm and vile. 

“You’re under the impression that I’m not fully aware of that fact.” He clenches thighs harder, giving himself the momentary leverage to lean upwards against the weight of strict arms. A fraction away from brushing his cheek to Overlord’s parted and still mouth. “And that just proves how desperate you are to get inside my head.” 

When the strain is too much Tarn is forced to retreat back where held, letting his arms still to either side of him. No longer fighting as he stares up at his “coworker”, waiting for some decision to be made. 

Defeated.

And as expected Overlord follows him down. Arms shifting to brace on either side of Tarn’s head, a long exhale before that satisfied smirk uncoils once more, taking in Tarn’s momentary stillness across the bed of glass.

“Not just your head.” He teases, dropping guard and tucking close to scrape his teeth against the edge of an exposed jaw. Tarn replies with an encouraging sound, something breathy and light where only Overlord would hear. Bringing the man to shift his weight and crawl forward, knee on the desk’s edge as Tarn’s legs released their hold to permit the movement. The furniture gives a soft groan the same time as Tarn when Overlord’s hand came to wrap his throat with a sparse touch. 

Tarn’s hands rise cautious, careful as they find the dripping trail of a shirt, seeking warm skin at the bunched hem while above Overlord purrs at the first touch.

“I knew it.” Overlord’s hard stomach of muscle and scars twitch under palm as Tarn’s hands brushed the edge of jeans, gliding over rough skin to the man’s back. “I should have done this years ago.” A bloodied mouth poises to kiss - or bite - with a purr.

Tarn chooses then to drive his fist into the exposed side - able now to reach the lower back with the shift of positions. Overlord’s head snapping back in the sudden impact, the strangled noise of pain loud in Tarn’s ear as his kidney suffered the brunt of the swing. Dislodging his balance enough for Tarn to pull his arm back and slam his elbow into Overlord’s temple with a harsh smack of sound as the hefty body was unable to withstand. Sending him toppling off the desk to the side, legs taking out a lamp with a cascade of glass and the heat of a popped bulb. Half the room drops suddenly into shadows that the setting sun through drawn curtains cannot fight.. 

Tarn swings off the table, dropping his knee into Overlord’s stomach before the other can rise. Feeling the muscles clench as the mouth bares vicious teeth with silver canines - the dark eyes bulging when Tarn draws the gun from under his desk, aiming at the furled brow as he kneels balanced over the man’s prone form. 

“I should have done this years ago.” Mocks, poised to fire at the slightest threat, trigger finger ready to squeeze and Overlord sees his dedication judging by the flash in his eyes. Calculating his chances of winning now that Tarn held ground. 

The broad shoulders limped back, meeting with the floor and Overlord begins to cackle. Dry. Low and miserable but his grin was bright as ever while hands rose in surrender before resting palms over Tarn’s thighs giving no further indication of fighting. 

“Have to say, you played me well.” Overlord sighs, watching Tarn from an odd angle with his skull against the floor. Aloof in the face of the active threat, or perhaps he knew Tarn would not kill him. 

Not _wouldn’t_.

Wasn’t permitted to. 

“Really going to kill me wearing that pretty face?” Bemoans, but Tarn chooses not to respond. “We’re not meant for this game Tarn. _His_ game of politics and poetry. We’re meant to be warriors, not play dress up and sit behind polished desks. It’s such a waste.” 

“Are you implying you’d be a better leader?” 

“Don’t look so excited, even if I aspired to taking over, Megatron still wouldn’t put me on your list. He’d want to get rid of me himself.” A pause, a snarl. “If he still has it in him. But even you can agree this domesticity doesn’t suit him. He’s gotten soft - you can see it right? He’s forgetting what beasts he’s got chained up and we all know what happens to dogs when they’re left hungry and trapped.” 

“I’ll devour you first before I let you become a threat to him.” 

Even defeated, as temporarily as it was, Overlord still managed to look victorious when he giggled, squeezing Tarn’s thighs as he did.

“You promise?” 

By luck, good or bad, the office door opens. Shapes moving on the periphery of Tarn’s gaze. Faceless, pointless figures while caught in the hypnotic smile beneath him. A strange sensation, like Overlord dug a needle past his skull and leaving the smallest mark which began to spread like fire. Not even the sound of guns drawn or the hammer _click_ pulled him from the momentary quiet where Overlord’s madness seemed almost charming. A wretchedness at least acknowledged rather than played off as something else. A confidence in oneself Tarn has only witnessed in one other man, and on that thought he withdraws. Pulling himself up and away as the security teams tightened.

“Did Daddy send you?” Overlord asks, turning to look upside down at the men and women holding weapons at his form. “He miss me?” 

“Overlord.” Soundwave’s approach was silent and Tarn quickly put away his weapon as the lean figure stood at his side. Examining behind tinted spectacles at the state of his face: The blood smeared from Overlord’s mouth across his jaw seemed shameful enough to burn and he could only turn his head away in cautious retreat. “Megatron requests your presence.” 

“Course he does. I’m a fucking delight.” Overlord swings legs high, a solid hop which shakes the floor to stand. Stretching his limbs and twisting torso like waking from a gentle nap. Blood soaked and battered, glass still clinging to his palms and arms, yet his face was almost peaceful. Playful when he winks in Tarn’s direction. “Thank you for the talk, _Sir_. I’ll get on those apologies right away.” 

“With haste, please.” Soundwave directs Overlord, their unmoving face did not share the hesitant look of fear in the security team brought along. Even trained killers knew when they were facing down a monster and it was shameful - watching Overlord realize this too. How easy it was for him to step towards the door and with a jolt of speed snarl and bark at one of the gunman.

They should have been trained enough to at least keep their weapon - but at the sound the fool yelped. Scrambling back as his weapon clattered to the ground so hands could better protect his fragile body from Overlord’s presence. 

“Amazing. I’m just disappointed by everyone today.” He muses, proud of his work as he steps over the fallen gun. Joy radiating from his beaming expression and not turning back while escorted from Tarn’s sight. 

Humming “here comes the bride” as he went.

 

“Injured?” Soundwave’s flat voice feels dangerously judgemental so Tarn chooses not to meet their query with more than a shake of his head. 

“Minimal, I should have contained him sooner.” 

“Overlord: off-limits for extermination.” Soundwave reminds, likely able to sense the thought repeating itself in Tarn’s mind every moment he was forced to be near the man. 

The term “psychopath” didn’t suit Overlord. There was no excuse for his behavior. Just a creature of selfish indulgence as he had been when they were young men living under the rising shadow of Megatron’s empire. Both promised so much…

“Trust me, I am well aware.” Grinds out with a clenched jaw before bothering to force his dismay down, thinking there was no point to focus now on the other’s words. His mocking claims and attempts to get into his head. 

“Suggestion. Take the day off.” 

“I’m grateful, but I assure you I’m--” Soundwave shakes their head, motioning to the floor at Tarn’s feet. There was blood and glass beneath his shoes, staining the carpet and he realized the cold crawl of the same dripping down his back. Uncomfortable but not agonizing. But it didn’t seem he would win this discussion. “Of course, I’ll have the room cleaned in my absence. I apologize for this disturbance. If Megatron needs me…” 

“Negative. We have this under control.” Soundwave cuts him off with unexpected speed, already leaving the chaos of the overturned office. “Order: Rest.”

“Yes sir.” 

\---

Vos pulls the glass shards from his body. There are quite a few but none pierced too deep to warrant a doctor. It was enough to clean the field and pour iodine down his back, his hand cleaned but shallow cuts did not bother him enough to require a wrapping.

Tarn kept rubbing his at his jaw in the shower, feeling the ghost of teeth against the bone itself until he scrubbed too hard leaving skin rough and angry in his attempt to wipe clean the memory. Kaon was waiting in his bedroom, that concerned expression on his face and watching Tarn dress with something unspoken lingering. 

He’s certain music is playing, something aged and soothing, but Tarn can’t hear it. The rush of blood like a waterfall in his skull leaving him dizzy and unsettled. Anxious while Kaon only waits sitting on the bed, patient where Tarn is only growing more agitated with ghosts plucking at his shoulders - the phantom touch of a hand squeezing his throat…

“Do you need help?” Kaon finally speaks, motioning to the vanity arrangement. The tri-fold mirrors and the sleek boxes containing components which make up Tarn’s human disguise.

Out of anger he ripped the day’s pieces off his face before showering, leaving the painted wax and silicone layers like the shed of a serpent outgrowing himself. 

“No.” Tarn stares for the moment on the many jars of applications - the paint of rich colors to match his skin, the various tools neatly organized across the shiny black surface which piece by piece make him human. 

_”...we both know that devil’s mask is your real face.”_ It is, isn’t it? Despite all his trickery and lies, Tarn knows the man’s claims were true. And oh how Overlord delighted in that observation, how quickly he claimed to prefer the mask over the sculpted face. 

Perhaps he should grant him his wish.

“I’ll be running an errand after nightfall.” Tarn explains as the static rises higher in this thoughts. Deafening under the memory of hands slipping down his thighs. 

“Should I gather the others?” 

“That won’t be necessary.” Shakes his head, moving across his room to a steel box. Latches undone with the smallest pressure as he opens the case and feels a certain peace at what was inside. “Not this time. But why don’t we take your pet on a walk around the compound before I go? He’s probably restless.” 

“I’ll get his leash.” Kaon agrees, moving off the bed and doing poorly to hide the disappointed slump to his shoulders.

“No no, not the fox.” Tarn corrects, pulling the familiar shape up to his face where grooves lined up and filled the spaces his bones and muscles had been eaten away. Making him whole behind the cover of plated metal and a polished shine. “Your other pet.” 

___

 

Overlord is staying at one of Megatron’s many safe-houses in Kaon.

He won’t sleep in Iacon, both refuses to and Megatron would not permit it. It’s anyone’s guess whether that’s due to a show of power or Megatron wanting a certain distance between his own sleeping form and Overlord’s lurking.

And while Megatron’s home was of an unknown location - few privy to those details - Starscream’s was not. Tarn was made aware of the security changes, the increased watch on the seeker’s penthouse - the snipers now slinking across rooftops nearby. 

Starscream did not know, amusing, but also necessary if Megatron would be sleeping more frequently at such a home. He had to be protected. 

Tarn commanded his gut to unclench, reminding himself he had no place to doubt his leader’s decisions. Starscream would make a fine Second...if he could keep his mouth shut for long enough to make himself useful. 

Tarn taps clawed fingers across the chair’s arm, the rattle of folded metal matching the gentle trail of rain outside. Distant thunder brought thin windows to quiver at his back but Tarn has long-since been used to booming noises like gunfire. He was from Tarn after all, it was practically his childhood lullaby. 

As expected, Overlord takes his time returning “home”. Nearly two a.m. when keys rattle outside the apartment and the large frame steps inside. Different clothes in a similar state of disrepair. Comfortable, one might say - but Tarn knows it’s more an act. Overlord prefers tactical gear over anything he might consider _civilian_ but it’s been many years since they were permitted to wear such things publicly. Even now Tarn’s own infiltration uniform was humble compared to the military look they all once wore proudly in the dark of Kaon’s hollows.

Lightning strikes outside and floods Overlord’s eyes with light, making them appear red in the dark. Glowing with surprise, but not startled by the company. Tarn doesn’t want to know if he was expected but it’s nice to see that Overlord won’t be shooting first. 

“You’re late.” Tarn chides, sitting upright in the battered armchair, legs crossed before him and mask firmly in place.

“By who’s clock?” Overlord breaks into a smile, dropping a rain-soaked bag to the floor as damp boots begin the journey across the small apartment. “You here to shoot me?” With what little light pours in from the street Tarn can watch Overlord’s hands. See them stretch and squeeze with his own thoughts. Calculating what he did not prepare for and coming up with a plan. 

“I know it’s difficult for you, but don’t be stupid.” Wearing the mask he’s naturally more animated, tilting his skull to one side to imply expression. 

“Cute, still doesn’t make me believe you.” Overlord stops a foot away from Tarn, and for all his babbling about getting shot - he hasn’t made a motion to guard himself from that potential. “Show me your weapon.” 

Tarn uncrosses his legs, the boots lean and sharp at the end of stretched legs. One tug parts his coat, the deep violet color looking black in the unlit room. Exposing his torso and the criss crossed straps of holsters and knives belted over his thighs and chest. Open for the man to see.

“Disarm.” 

Why is Tarn here? Why did he crawl to Kaon seeking the one person violating the world he’d built for himself? He guarded his philosophy, his dedication as precious to him as a vein. But instead of turning in disgust from Overlord’s challenge - he ran towards it. For what?

To prove to himself he was unmoved by the man’s words? Unbothered by his touch?

Tarn knew neither of those things were true. So perhaps this was punishment for flinching.

“‘Disarm me yourself.” 

A crack of lightning curls too close, the thunder which follows shakes the apartment’s frame and manages to hide the sound Overlord makes in response to the order. Giving Tarn a similar thrill of excitement of the chase. The throbbing moment of watching his prey turn a corner and realize there was nowhere else to run.

As it turns out, it takes little to drop Overlord to his knees. 

He’s still a broad man and doesn’t fit between Tarn’s legs, forcing him to part them wider. Obscene in the dark while heavy hands, which struck earlier, now find the inner seams of his pants. Following the natural trail over matte fabric like leather, catching on the belts looping the muscle of his thighs. A thumb pressing against the clip of a silver weapon, freeing it of the first holster of Tarn’s extensive arrangement. 

A momentary pause, mask watching monster as Overlord seems to consider something - now armed. Taking note of the vulnerable position of his company. Tarn’s hands now clenching the fabric of the chair beneath intricate claw attachments: sharp enough to render the flesh from Overlord’s smug face. 

Both watching, a singular challenge of “I dare you” spoken only in the flash of lightning and the roll of thunder beyond them.

They both unwind when Overlord places the weapon down on the coffee table in reach, giving Tarn a look and a flash of a smile before moving to the next weapon. Piece by piece removing what could threaten, avoiding touching more than required but certainly taking his time. Frisking in long, torturous strokes down Tarn’s legs. Leaving him to wait, patient and suffocating under the same loud pulse of blood in his head. Digging heels into the cheap flooring and choking as he forced breaths to spill out even. 

Calm. Controlled as Overlord pressed forward to drive palms up his covered belly. Hands heavy across his chest to reach the pistols on either side. Soon to join the artillery pile of knuckle breakers and blades, leaving only one weapon remaining.

“Would you like to keep those on? I can’t imagine they won’t get in the way.” Overlord is kneeling, his own body pressed up between Tarn’s parted limbs and he grabs a wrist. Puppeting the clawed hand to hover between them while Tarn turns his masked face the opposite direction - a small chuckle bubbling between them.

“Overlord. What do you think I’m here for?” That pulls surprise from the man, giving Tarn the pause to sit forward. Gentle as he can he trails the clawed tips down the other’s cheek. Tripping over the angular nose and parted lips where he lingers. Applying a fraction of pressure until the flesh gave, but did not bleed all while Overlord struggled to speak.

“Primus I hope it’s sensitivity training.” 

Tarn answers by curling a claw tip under his chin, guiding Overlord upwards until his mask clipped Overlord’s brow. Smiling beneath the safety it provided, separating Tarn as much as he needed from this moment.

This was just another challenge between them. A different sort of fight. 

Nothing more.

“Good guess.” 

He cannot feel Overlord’s mouth with the mask, but there’s an impact nonetheless. Knocks his head back as the humble slit over his mouth is flooded with the other’s breath. Hissing when a hand wraps one of the holster straps, tugging him close until Tarn’s heel had no choice but to brace on Overlord’s hip. Kicking himself higher while the man’s teeth scraped into the masks’ face - like one dog trying to bite through another’s muzzle. 

Neither are small men, not anymore, so the chair gives a pathetic sound as Overlord crawls higher onto what limited space is available. Mouth still clashing against the mask while powerful hands twist into the belts. Straining Tarn’s body until they’re tangled in the small fit, proving its poor structure the moment a thigh is pressed high between Tarn’s legs and his body jerks at the pressure. 

Then jolts higher as Overlord rocks forward, sinking his teeth into a strip of exposed jaw where the mask cannot protect him. 

Overlord dares to hush him, sweeping his tongue across the bite, gentler now despite a fist still clutching a chest strap like a leash. Keeping Tarn in position before knocking his brow into the mask. Breath quick and amused tone something Tarn can pretend not to despise, for this moment only, as clawed fists have to brace on thick arms the moment Overlord presses an unwanted tender kiss to his pulse. 

“You can claw me up.” He whispers in the dark, nuzzling the skin likely already bruising from teeth. Perhaps even bleeding with the pointed canines still silver and threatening across Overlord’s otherwise pearl teeth. “I’ll just heal.” Tarn doesn’t have a chance to respond as Overlord’s pawing at his chest suddenly falls between his legs without warning. Hips stutter forward and he’s held down by the weight of a single hand working him through the restricting fabric. Long fingers molding to the shape beneath, palm heavy as Tarn swallows his tongue and hisses beneath the mask. Fighting the brimming sensation as his body defies him - rocking desperate into the touch. 

He thinks Overlord is praising him, or insulting him, but doesn’t listen. It will be less humiliation later when the head clears if he doesn’t remember. Tarn left to quake against the form pressed tight and hard. Overlord’s mouth chasing each sound with his own tongue. Driving sharp cries from and otherwise quiet man by the talented twist of a hand or the sudden pressure smothering and tortuous. 

In truth, Tarn had almost forgotten what this felt like. 

How long since someone touched him last? How rare was it, even before?

And now Tarn finds himself willingly raising hips when Overlord stops - allowing Overlord to part his clothes and drag them down hips. Pulling apart belts and hooked straps - making a mockery of his uniform to twist and tie his limbs until the moment Overlord’s mouth is hot and stretched between his legs. Tarn’s wrists tied together and only metal claws can bunch and tear at the fabric of Overlord’s shirt while he’s swallowed down. Caressed and teased - And even then he’s certain Overlord is trying to get Tarn to tear into _him_.

\--

 

His phone rings from a wrinkled coat left across a broken chair one room over as Tarn struggles to wake. 

His body aches for all wrong reasons as he pushes himself up from the mattress top. First thought falling to the mask missing, probably somewhere in the clothes strewn about tangled sheets and a dismantled headboard. The holster belts still present where they were used the night before - one still even loosely strapping his wrist to his bed partner’s who remains unconscious in his deep slumber.

Overlord’s back is red - not bloodied from the claws - but marks from Tarn’s blunt nails before they were tied down. He doesn’t remember slipping the impromptu cuffs - but knows well that these holsters and belts will all be burned.

The phone rings again and Tarn is awake enough now to panic.

Only one number is permitted to ring on _that_ particular phone and he’s careless pushing out of the bed. His feet slipping on spilled sheets and tattered jeans as he maneuvers the dim morning sun, trying to find his coat and answer before the calls goes quiet. 

He almost falls into the lopsided chair which finally broke when Overlord tried to pull Tarn into his lap. His violent, booming laughter echoing through the small home even as he hoisted Tarn up by the belts. Carrying him like a caged bird to the backroom where Tarn got hands around his throat. Holding him there until marks where left and Overlord wouldn’t stop nuzzling his mouth. 

“Sir.” He answers out of breath, the phone cradled, precious in his hands while the early morning left bare skin chilled. 

“Everything alright Tarn?” Megatron’s voice was low with fresh morning, evenly paced and without concern. It filled Tarn with both a sense of peace and trembling horror at the state of himself. Megatron could not see him, but that didn’t mean Tarn was not exposed.

“Of course sir, I apologize for my lack of attention.” 

“It’s nothing. This isn’t a usual call.” Megatron continues, accepting the answer and one band of tension eases back, letting Tarn breathe against the knot squeezing his throat. “I wanted to ask about Overlord. I heard there was an issue yesterday.” 

“Mild inconvenience, I fell lax in our conversation, he attempted to take advantage. It won’t happen again.” 

“Hm. If you insist, but I must remind you not to take him lightly. Overlord is a product of our quiet revolution - but recently he’s not so keen on silence.” 

“Of course sir.” Quickly agrees, knowing well the same idea. 

“I would ask you to keep an eye on him while he’s back.” It’s an order, not a suggestion, and Tarn squeezes his jaw. Feeling old injuries and surgical scars pop where things never settled right. “I know that isn’t the easiest thing.” 

“Sir. Are you concerned with--” 

“I don’t believe he’s a threat.” Megatron interrupts, the only one permitted to do so and it’s almost like a pin is drawn out of his skull. Quieting the static swelling beneath and tearing him apart. “But I’m not interested in being surprised.” 

“Understood sir.” This call could have easily been Overlord’s name added to the list. Comical that his current location only would make that an easier kill. He’s smiling despite the situation. Uncertain if he’s relieved or disappointed by the news. “I’ll report back with any notable information, and thank you for---” 

“Not now Starscream--” Megatron’s voice is muffled by the placement of a hand over the receiver, speaking to another on his end. 

The who is not surprising, but Tarn feels the moment strangle him just the same. “Excuse the interruption, Starscream says hello.” 

_”I most certainly do not!”_ The seeker is loud enough that Tarn hears, but what truly scorches is Megatron’s amused chuckle. Gentle and calm. Adoring even as he addresses the man and permits Tarn a taste. The sound of his adoration caressing the fire inside of his skull while it is meant for the wretched creature on the other line. 

“I’ll leave you to your day, Sir.” He speaks up quickly, hoping his tone is calm as he needs it to be. “Thank you for calling.” 

Megatron doesn’t mimic the pleasantries, his voice cut off as he addresses Starscream with a doting sound.

Tarn is unsure how long he stood there, still holding the phone to his ear, when Overlord’s hands smooth their way up his bare back. Catching on scars and graft marks as they travel comfortably upwards until the broad plateau of Tarn’s shoulders. Lingering there as the rest of the man molds to his back both heavy and uncomfortable.

“Was that the old man?” He questions and shatters the last grasped echo of Megatron’s voice. “Do you have a new assignment?”

“Yes.” 

“Can I watch?” Overlord sounds too excited and it all feels wrong now without his mask - with daylight highlighting the shape of pale hands curling over his shoulders. 

“No.” 

“Spoilsport.” Overlord lets go, but doesn’t fall far. Hand trailing off his shoulder as the titan of a man finds the chair in its pitiful state. Amused chuckle the same shape - but not tone as Megatron’s. He sits in the mess, needing to hold himself up with one leg at a poor angle yet seems entirely comfortable just to spite the call of gravity and common sense. “So, having second thoughts about last night? Are you going to threaten me? Spit vile and venomous at our mutual misdeeds? If so please get it over with, I have a warehouse to clear by five and promised to give Shattercleave a call.” 

“You’re shameless.” 

“Says the man who sat up waiting for me in my apartment.” 

“It’s not yours.” 

“And I’m not Megatron.” Tarn’s mouth pinches and Overlord for once does not chase the reaction for further poor humor. Instead the man, just as bare yet lounging as though the broken chair were a throne, watches with an inquisitive look. Taking in more than the state of Tarn’s body. 

Dare he think it, Tarn might suspect Overlord was forming a thought under that thick skull of his. “Did I pass my sensitivity lessons?” 

Tarn stares. That’s all he can do. Exposed without armor or a mask, his face unprepared and sunlit where Overlord can see every scar - every missing piece where surgeries were more bothersome than prosthetics and specific paints. But it is maddening that, somehow, the man’s gaze on his mangled face and sex battered body does not bring the shame he might have expected. After all, Overlord was responsible for the bruises across his hips and the shape of teeth against his thigh.

And they were young men when they first met, before Tarn knew how to hide his face - and even then Overlord had been a teasing bastard. Meeting with a grin and shaggy hair, calling Tarn’s scars “metal” with all the grace of a fool. They had been such different creatures then, yet both integral to Megatron’s design.

“Not in the least.” He finally answers, throwing the coat around himself and keeping close tabs on Overlord’s hands so near the pile of weapons from the night before.

He questions what Megatron would do if one were capable of returning Overlord to his proper place? 

“But you’ll be in town for awhile, so there’s plenty of time to fix your sorry state.” 

Dark eyes light up, the grin as crooked as the chair and the ragged marks of Tarn’s nails across the pale skin. He motions for Tarn to come closer, twisting his fist in the swaying hem of the dark colored coat. Smiling like he’s won something.

“I’ll be a good boy Tarn, I promise.”


End file.
